


i'll have you seeing double

by belgard



Series: a man of distinction [2]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Biting, Confusion, Dry Humping, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Lapdance, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Unresolved Tension, a disco deaky cameo! with a twist, but !!!!, deaky is a little devil we all know that, ohhhh there's so much fluff, shagging in the studio uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 23:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17837960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgard/pseuds/belgard
Summary: they know this is wrong—they know they shouldn’t do this again, but when john dances, somehow roger feels like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him alive.





	i'll have you seeing double

**Author's Note:**

> heyyyyyy i'm back!!!!  
> i hope you'll like this one, this is a companion piece to 'spend a little time with me.' you don't really have to read that one in order to get the gist but!!!! it just gives a kind of prelude that makes everything just a bit clearer.  
> anyways, if you like-like-like this one, please do leave a comment and kudos; they make my heart flutter each morning. x

 

 

Roger has noticed that the bassist has been sneaking shy glances at him.

The bassist is known for subtlety in his art, and Roger doesn’t know if he’s just being a conceited wanker, but he’s _sure_ of it _._ He’s sure that John have been giving him looks—he’s noticed them from the peripherals of his sight. And as much as Brian would like to tell him that he's oblivious to those kinds of things, he'd beg to differ with these proofs to testify against him. 

He doesn’t know what’s going on with him, how he reacts to John like it’s borderline Pavlovian by now. He can’t help but to feel the burning feeling rushing in his blood whenever John accidentally does something as innocently-mundane as brush a finger against Roger’s hand, the touch so sweet to his skin. Or whenever John bends over to plug his bass into his amp, or when he’s assisting Brian in plugging _his_ guitar to his handmade amp, which is significantly shorter than John’s own, so John has to bend down even lower to reach it.

Roger quite doesn’t understand it. John could’ve just knelt down.

But that _also_ gives a lewd picture that’s so vivid in his mind that he knows he’ll have a hard time getting rid of. Fuck—he should _not_ get this flustered over his own fucking _bandmate,_ of all people.

He’s not going to pretend and say that he doesn’t feel attracted to John in the slightest, because that would be a major lie. He can own up to that, and say that John makes his heart beat a little faster whenever he walks past his drum kit, striding across the room in those tight silk black flares and tall suede platforms that make him inches taller. Roger has always appreciated the sight of nice, long legs in nice, tight trousers that fit them perfectly.

And they fit John’s _just_ so.

He doesn’t know if John feels the same way, and he’s not even sure about himself regarding the issue. What they did, it was stupid, it was lust-driven, it was reckless—but _god_ , it was fucking magnificent. Roger would kill a man to do it all over again, to be in the back seat of his car with John and fog up the windows. (If he has to be honest, he hasn’t been able to drive around without popping an embarrassing hard-on every single time.) And now that he’s known that John often thinks of them, it just sends his mind reeling and spiraling down a hole that makes him absolutely bonkers. He doesn’t even know that John could be capable of thinking about things like that—getting caught in the act, for everyone to see, fucking _filthy._

Roger blinks himself awake, trying to not let it get to him before he gets hard in front of his band-mates. He averts his eyes to his drum kit, seeing how his fingers scrabble over the screws near the bass drum and tighten them up even when he knows he doesn’t need to. They’re perfectly fine, but _he_ certainly isn’t.

They’ve reached the consensus to just let it be, back at the car in the pouring rain and hazed-up windows. Roger still remembers vividly how warm John’s skin felt against his, and he has tries to forget about how John made him feel oddly at home, but he knows that he could never succeed. John’s sparkling eyes, and that adorably crooked smile, they somehow never fail to make him stumble in his steps whenever John directs them right at him. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.

Roger feels himself getting warmer. He steps onto the pedal that leads to the hi-hat, gently. The golden disks make a light twinkling sound against one another.

“You alright?” Brian asks him, thick eyebrows furrowing beneath a sweep of loose curls. Roger sends him a wide smile in return.

“Peachy.” He grins, but Brian doesn’t faze. Him and his fucking mind-reading, you really can’t fool Brian May in anything. Roger feels his own smile slowly falling.

“If you say so, Rog,” Brian tells him, and Roger has the urge to spill everything to him, but a corner of his mind tells him that it isn’t Brian’s business to know at all. It’s something that Roger has to figure out for himself. “But y’know, if you want to…”

Roger holds up a hand, along with a smile. “I know, Bri,” he says. “I know.”

There’s always something so damn calming about Brian’s hazel eyes, they’re gentle and comforting—the perfect traits of a trust-worthy best friend. It’s like they’re goading Roger to tell him about everything, they’re assets that Brian knows very well how to use, so Roger averts his eyes and set them on his cymbals.

When Roger looks up, he sees John leaning back against the wall, his hands busy in tuning his bass, before he raises his head to gaze right back at him, cheeks slowly turning scarlet.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Hi, Rog.”

Roger looks up from his coffee and almost spat it out when his eyes lock with John’s greenish-grey pair, thick eyelashes fanned across the fair planes of his cheekbones. He tries his best to send him a genuine smile, but the memories of John in his car suddenly come flurrying back into his mind, and he knows he’ll have to get them out, so he ducks his head down, placing all of his focus on his cup of coffee.

He hears John let out a soft sigh, before the seat next to him sinks beneath the weight of John sitting on it, long legs come crossing upon one another in one elegant motion. Roger suddenly feels himself becoming hyper-aware of the feeling John next to him, how their skin is almost touching each other, how he can almost feel the warmth of John’s body by this proximity, how he can hear John’s gentle puffs of breath next to him, how he can see John shifting his legs from his peripheral vision. He can feel his breathing quicken, and it’s _revolting,_ because Roger knows this is wrong.

He isn’t supposed to think this way about his own band-mate. It’s unprofessional and he’s acting like a fucking pre-pubescent boy who just had his first week of never-ending wet dreams. (About one of his own best friends, in Roger’s embarrassing case.)

“Hi, um,” Roger musters out, cringing inwardly at how his voice sounds, all meek and high from nervousness. He clears his throat, hoping that John didn’t notice that. “Deaks.”

“Are you going with Bri and Fred later?” John asks him casually, and Roger can’t help the furrow of his brows.

“Where to?”

“Crystallines _._ ” The Crystallines is one of the most infamous bars at downtown London, and they frequent it quite often. You’ll come home covered in holographic glitter and smelling of sex and tobacco and alcohol. It’s heaven on earth, basically. “They’ll be going at nine, I think.” Roger hears the way John’s voice go up in pitch, it’s slight but audible—he doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Don’t think so.” Roger tries to keep his focus on his coffee, eyes practically glued on it, and he knows he’s being a massive prick but he _has_ to do this, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he stares into John’s eyes.

He might just _die._

 “I didn’t know that they were going,” he continues as he shrugs his shoulders in a way that’s meant to be nonchalant, because those two bastards didn’t even _tell_ him that they were going to the Crystallines. He would’ve chosen to go with them rather than spend his night alone in the studio with John. It isn’t like he doesn’t _like_ John - in fact it’s the opposite - but he’s really going to spill his guts out and dig his own grave before John has the chance to tell him to fuck off.

 “Are you…” John trails off, and Roger tries look up this time. _Fuck_. One of the studio lights are shining dimly behind him, bestowing a calm yellow glow behind John’s head that makes him look almost angelic, his wild hair framing his face.  He looks fucking gorgeous, he really does, and as much as Roger tries to deny it he knows that deep down, the thought stays. The bassist is staring down at his thighs, one of his hands going up to tuck some of his long hair to the back of his ear. Roger is somehow fixated by the sight, and he shakes his head a little to get it out of his mind. Then, John slowly looks up. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Roger feels his own heart beating rapidly against his chest. Just the way John said it to him, in a voice so quiet and calm and so, so _Deaky_ , amplified by the absence of the others in the room—it all seems too much for him. He doesn’t know the intention behind John’s question is, and as shameful as he is being, he’s so desperate to know.

“No,” Roger says, surprised at how stable his voice sounds like to his own ears.

He sees one of the corners of John’s lips pull up into a small smile. It’s lovely.

“Great,” John says with a nod, voice just above a whisper.

Swallowing up his own nervousness, Roger tries to forget about anything that might happen, all the useless thoughts that he’s been thinking about, how they all consumed his mind. There’s no denying in the way he feels his fingers tremble slightly, and he knows how much he wants to have John again, so if his dignity is on the line, he’s ready to say fuck all.

“Awesome,” he says.

His heart almost stuttered when he sees John grin up at him - that adorable tooth-gapped little thing - giving him a brief nod that somehow makes Roger feel like he’s on air.

“Yeah.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“D’you reckon Fred’s getting a bit bossy over the whole thing?” Roger hears himself ask as he takes another swig of his beer. When he turns his head to John, the other just keeps on looking at him, tilting his head as if he’s asking him to carry on. “I don’t… I don’t _know,_ Deaks. I mean, I’m just scared that we’ll bloody well be wasting our time.”

He doesn’t know why he’s saying all of these things, but perhaps it’s because of the warm, tiny buzz of alcohol in his veins that makes him forget of all nervousness he had before to spend a night with John alone, and it’s perhaps because of how John looks at him with these _eyes_ that can make him feel like he might as well spill his guts out. He doesn’t feel like he’s talking shit about Freddie, but there are just some things that he isn’t quite looking forward to talk to them about. 

“Don’t say that,” John says, voice just above a whisper as his sparkling eyes widen. “I’ve got a great feeling about this, you know, and I _do_ think we should take risks. You’ve said it yourself; fortune favours the bold, was that it?”

Roger feels a chuckle slip past his lips. “Cheeky git,” he says.

John just shrugs, sending him a small smile as he lets the tip of his finger trail down the side of the beer bottle that he’s holding. Roger immediately looks up, trying to forget how the movement made his stomach stir. “Fred’s not being bossy,” John says. “He’s just being experimental, I think. It’s our thing, isn’t it?” He casts his eyes down briefly before he looks up at Roger through his lashes, and he swears he can feel his heart stop. “But in any means, Freddie not being bossy is like... Bri not being a bloody perfectionist.”

Roger has to agree with him on that.

They spend so much time, striving for perfection, but he thinks that it’s what makes them so… _them,_ really. He has never thought about it that way, how their little quirks, when combined together, stick them all even closer like a glue. The months they’ve spent here, in there little studio with Freddie demanding him to sing higher and Brian gripping onto his own hair in frustration as John watches, rolling his eyes—it all gave them these records that they’ve had, each hung up on the walls of their bedrooms.

“Rog, I’ve been meaning to ask,” John breaks the silence, before he takes another swig. Roger feels his own brows furrowing at this.

“Hm?”

John bites down on his lip, and Roger tries to tamper down the way it makes his skin tingle. “I… What we did, last week,” John says as he crosses his legs, “it didn’t bother you, did it?”

God, if only John knew how much _worse_ it was to him. It didn’t bother him, oh, not at all, but the sheer memory of it lingers in his mind, coming back to consume him every single night before he goes to sleep, leaving him hot and hard on his bed. He remembers everything vividly – even though he was a bit buzzed back then, John was too – but he still could feel John’s skin on him, how his blood thrummed beneath his skin, how the waves of pleasure consumed him unlike anything else. It was so clear, the way John threw his head back and keened, how he whined high in his throat and thrusted up into John, chasing for his release like it was the last thing he’d do.

The memory of John, all confident with glinting eyes beneath the faint glow of his car—they’ve never left his mind.

“Roger?” John asks him again, and when he blinks, he sees the way John’s expression turn sombre, the corners of his lips pulled down just slightly as he casts his gaze somewhere else.

“No, Deaky, no,” Roger tells him, and when he sees John’s eyes back on him again, he sighs. “No, it didn’t bother me at all.”

John smiles at him then before taking a swig of his beer, and Roger feels his own breath coming out shaky.

“It’s, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “quite the opposite, actually.”

John’s eyes flick up to meet his, and Roger sees the way they darken, he sees the way John’s cheeks flush red and high. He feels himself still on his seat, never feeling this unsure of what he should say.

His heart almost leapt out of his chest when he feels John’s hand resting briefly on his thigh right as the brunet brings his beer up to take one more sip, one of his long legs swinging over the his thighs so he can place himself right on Roger’s lap, sitting on it like he owns it. Roger almost chokes on the beer, and he can feel his eyes widening in retaliation.

“Fuck, _John—“_

John shuts him up right away when he grips onto Roger’s chin, pulling him into a kiss as one of his long fingers place themselves on Roger’s hand, brushing the tips on his burning skin until John coaxes him to let the bottle go. Roger does. He almost groans out when he tastes John’s lips on his own, the liquid rush of pleasure slowly creeping up his spine. It’s warm, it’s maddening, and somehow all of the memories of him and John together, the ones that he has been trying his harder to conceal and forget yet he fails to, come rushing back together in a jumbled mess that sends him sputtering.

“I wanna dance for you,” John says right next to his ear when he leans down, and the way he sounds, how confident and _sure_ he is, it all makes Roger’s knees buckle because fuck, he shouldn’t really find that as attractive as it is.

“Huh… _what_?”

John rolls his eyes as he smiles crookedly, before he leans in closer to sink his teeth onto the corner of his jaw, and then sweetening the sting with a peck of his lips. That almost sent Roger into cardiac arrest. “I _said_ I want to dance for you,” he says with a pair of scarlet cheeks, one of his hands burying itself in Roger’s hair, petting it down and making him close his eyes without realising it. “Have we got any, um, records here? Tapes?”

Roger blindly nods, one of his hands scrabbling for the little box of vinyls near the sofa they’re sitting on. “I think,” he says, biting down onto his bottom lip. “I think we’ve got one of ours. _Sheer Heart Attack_.”

“That’ll do.” John grins up at him; Roger feels his own heart skip a beat. The bassist turns on his lap and bends down a little to get the record from its box, and Roger’s got his eyes fixated on the little hint of skin that’s revealed beneath the skewed hem of John’s waist-length shirt, lifted up a little when he ducks down. He doesn’t know what came over him when he decides to swipe the tip of his thumb against the exposed skin of John’s soft waist, but then the bassist turns to him slowly, eyes widened a little as he grabs onto the record he’s looking for. Roger averts his eyes beneath John’s surprised look, feeling his neck flushing with heat.

The sleeve of their album stares back at Roger, the sight of them half-naked with Vaseline and water sprinkles at them. The album artwork for this one has always been considered risque by them all - a bit _lewd_ , said Brian - but it was thrilling. Sexually challenging. Intimidating. Everything they want the band to be.

He sees John’s deft hands pulling the disk out of the paper casing, before he leans closer to press a kiss down the tip of his nose. Roger almost jumps in surprise at that, and when he hears John’s little giggle at his reaction, he’s sure that maybe, just _maybe,_ he could get John to laugh like that more often in the future.

It’s as if the innocent atmosphere quickly disperses with the air, and Roger is once again hot and randy when he sees John slowly lowering his gaze - like it’s a switch - and crawl over his lap towards the little turn-table on the small stand next to the sofa. His fingers are a bit shaky, Roger can see that, but he can’t help but to focus on the way John’s long legs feel on his own thighs, shifting and trembling ever-so-slightly over his clothed skin.

It’s as if John notices the way he’s suffering right now, the little bastard, and when Roger lets his eyes travel over the gentle curves of John’s body, he sees John arch his back just a slight bit, making the dip of his spine fall down and his arse pop out. Roger wants to pull on his own hair—it’s all slowly killing him.  When John hears the start of the first track playing, he starts to switch through it, his eyebrows adorably-furrowed in focus. “I want… ‘Flick of the Wrist!’”

Roger feels his own eyes widening. _Shit._

They play that song on every gig they do, and Roger’s very much going to have a _hard_ time keeping a beat from now on if John decides to torture him just so, have his own way with anything because Roger would let him. God, it’s pathetic but he _would_.

When the crescendo of Freddie’s piano places the start of the song, Roger leans his head back against the headrest, trying his hardest to ignore the flash of heat down his groin and his neck up to his cheeks when John sends him a flash of his (gorgeous) cheeky smile. He’s going to be the death of him, a corner of Roger’s mind supplies, and for once, Roger’s got to agree.

It’s like John sets his cue on his own bass-playing, because as soon as he hears John in the song, the bassist on his lap starts to put his hands on his shoulders, as if bracing himself, before he raises his arms in one graceful motion and brings them behind his head, sliding down to his neck and to his chest in one sweeping motion that manages to make Roger’s lungs _burst,_ and the way John’s half-lidded gaze is set upon him is driving him slightly mad, making him feel like he can’t do anything but watch, and let himself be.

He can feel himself starting to get half-hard, and the way the feeling shoots up his spine is amplified when John throws his head back, and brings it down again, his greenish-grey now tinged with wildfire and pure bliss.

“One rule,” John whispers as he leans over to place his lips next to his ear. Roger can feel his own heartbeat quickening at the feeling of John’s warm breath against the skin of his neck. “No touching.”

“ _Deaky,”_ Roger warns, feeling his body stilling at the so-called rule. Now, that would be absolute fucking _torture._

John just looks down at him, a small smile tugging sweetly on his lips as he slowly backs himself away and walks towards the opposite side of the small room. Roger feels his breathing catch when John turns around and bites down teasingly on his lower lip, dragging it on as he lets his eyelids fall halfway down, making them look just _so,_ as if they’re hiding away a pair of lustful secrets that Roger just wants to unravel, piece by piece, just so he can figure out just what’s beneath John’s intentions.

He doesn’t care, for now, except for the feeling of his own blood thrumming beneath his own skin. It’s slowly driving him mad.

_I’ll have you seeing double._

John lets his hand fall upon the plane of his chest as he slowly sways his hips, treacherously, like he knows just what it turns Roger into. John has always been the best dancer out them all, they’ve seen him at the disco clubs they’ve been to, they’ve seen him dance his heart out with a coy smile on his face as the light of his eyes reflects off the disco ball over his head. John always knows how to move his body in the right way, following the beat messy, yet organised movements in its own tempo. Roger is sometimes appalled by it – amazed – and he often wishes John would take him dancing one day, letting his hand fall upon John’s waist as he has let his dance partners do.

Perhaps this is it, a corner of Roger’s mind supplies.

He feels himself biting down on his lip, hands curled up into fist as he tries his hardest to keep his eyes on the bassist, dancing right in front of him as he throws his head back at the lead cue of his bass. Roger sees the exposed column of his throat, and his mind wanders over to _that_ memory, of them, in his car. With John’s head thrown back and lips parted as he loses himself to the pleasure, long eyelashes fanned over his flushed cheeks as his blunt finger grip onto Roger’s skin, making him delirious.

_Simply with those eyes._

John saunters over to him, swaying his hips ever so slightly as he approaches him, the corner of his lips still tugged into that sweet, yet devilish, smile. The brunet looks down at him, one of his hand going up to his chest to toy with the buttons of his silk shirt, before he starts to pop one open. And then another. And then another, revealing the smooth plane of John’s almost-spotless chest.

Roger’s determined to change that—he wants to press kisses down that chest, let his curious lips be, sucking and licking and biting endlessly until John’s left squirming and whimpering – as sensitive as anything – with his fair skin littered with scarlet-purple bruises that Roger knows will last. It’ll be like a little secret that only they know, but still, that means John has to cover up a bit more on their gigs. No more of those deep neckline shirts borrowed from Freddie for a while, unless Roger chooses to play clever and places his marks where he knows won’t be visible to the public unless John wants them to be.

He doesn’t mind anything. He’ll do whatever John wants him to.

John buries his hands into his own mop of brown hair, wild from intoxication and his habit of running his fingers through them whenever he’s frustrated, and Roger sees the way it bunches up beneath his fingers, making it look messy and tousled and _oh_. Attractive.

 _Very_ attractive.

Roger almost groans out loud when he sees John’s tongue poking out, as he swipes over his botton lip slightly right before he bites down on his reddened bottom lip. The action is so, so cheeky and innocent but somehow it’s one of the sexiest things Roger has ever seen.

_Don’t look back!_

When John is right in front of Roger, he slings his leg over his thighs, until Roger sees that he has gotten himself a lapful of John Deacon.

John places one of his hands on the little spot on the sofa right behind him, and Roger feels himself almost jumping out of his skin at the sheer surprise of it, even though the bassist was slow and gentle and so undeniably _sensual_ , that it’s all starting to make Roger lose his mind a little, though John’s boldness remains, and Roger can’t help but to feel the heat pooling at the pit of his stomach, can’t help but to get hard at that, embarrassingly quick for a quasi-lapdance.

The brunet – the little _bastard_ – seems to have taken notice of the things he’s doing to Roger, as he looks down to set his eyes upon the bulge in Roger’s trousers, a prideful glint of his eyes appearing right when he looks up to meet his gaze. John bites down on his smile with a pair of rose-coloured cheeks, and Roger has never seen anything so gorgeous in his life. 

_Flick of the wrist; he’ll eat your heart out!_

John takes it upon himself and lowers his hips down, until Roger can feel them against his own, and his blood is running hot with anticipation, his breathing hard and ragged when John leans over to nip on his bottom lip with his teeth.

Roger hears himself groaning.

John just smiles at this, and everything in him just wants to throw John down on the sofa and have his way with him, make _him_ whine and tremble for a change.

“Can I touch you now, Deaks?” Roger asks, and the way his voice sounds to his own ears, scratchy and rough, surprises him just a little. John tilts his head to the side, until his ear touches his shoulders, and the sight makes Roger’s heart pound just ten beats faster. Roger swallows his nervousness away—he doesn’t even know why he’s nervous, he never _was,_ but for some reason John is making him feel like a teenager all over again. Perhaps it’s the display of the fire that John has always been hiding behind his coy demeanour, behind the looks that are casted down in a flutter of his eyelashes, his fumbling fingers and the scarlet of his cheeks.

Everything is so suprisingly _overwhelming_ , and suddenly Roger is right here, on the sofa, in the studio, with his bandmate on his lap all over again.

His thoughts are sorely interrupted when John angles his hips _just_ so, and he grinds down right onto Roger’s groin, making him see the first glimpse of maddening pleasure right behind the lids of his eyes. Roger can’t help it, he resists the urge to grip onto the curves of John’s waist, keeping him there with all his might. He feels himself biting down on his lip, just to stay still with John squirming on his lap.

“Hm?” John asks him, the glint in his eyes no doubt filled with malicious intent.

There is just something so incredibly fascinating, about the way John just _shifts,_ ever-so-slightly, into this version of himself that he doesn’t often see, although he had always known that John very well could be. Confident, in a way that makes his head spin from how attractive it is. John has always been confident in himself, he just wasn’t flashy, but seeing his confidence in a situation like this… Roger might just be losing his mind a little.

He feels his fists tightening.

“Can I touch you, John?” Roger presses, never caring about how desperate he sounds. At this point he’s willing to grovel. “ _Please_.”

And now he’s begging. Fucking wonderful.

John’s bitten lip is released with a whimper, and Roger can see how his eyelashes flutter close as his cheeks grow redder. He feels John putting both of his hands on his shoulders as he leans in closer, trying to catch John’s lips with his own.

He sees John raising his hips up a bit as he unbuckles his belt and pops the button of his trousers, before standing up to shimmy his way out of his tight flares. Roger keeps his eyes glued onto the way the skin of John’s leg is so slowly revealed, little by little, almost like unwrapping a present, and Roger can’t wait to feel them again, to feel how soft the insides of John’s thighs are, how easy they bruise up beneath the touch of his calloused fingertips

John then drops down to his knees in front of his parted legs, raising his head to look at him – and Roger sees the way his greyish-green eye twinkle, it’s infuriating – before he feels John placing his nimble hands on his thighs, squeezing the covered flesh there. Roger bites down on his own lip and tightens his fists once more, just to keep himself from dragging John up here. The temptation is unlike anything he’s ever felt before—the blazing fire beneath his skin, the barest hints of pleasure rippling down his spine as his mind wanders to the things he’d to to John.

He feels John’s hands slowly traveling up to the belt around his hip, and he sees how the bassist’s tongue swipes around his bottom lip, it’s maddening, and when John unbuckles his belt, he almost curses at the feeling of John’s wrist pressing down on his hardening prick. He chokes on his own breath, and when he looks down, he sees the corner of John’s lips pulled up into a saucy little smile.

“You _git_ ,” Roger mutters beneath his breath, and John just giggles.

Roger feels his entire body melt at the sound.

When his pants are exposed, he looks down, and almost groans aloud when he sees the little stain at the centre, and it’s _embarrassing_ and he shouldn’t be here, hard and desperate like a teenage boy, but John just smiles up at him, as he laces his hands at the back of Roger’s neck, wiggling his hips on his lap.

“Fuck,” Roger lets out, and John just tilts his head, moving his body closer until their chests are almost touching. Roger is very much aware about the fact that John’s prick is actually _inches_ above him, and he could just thrust up and make him whimper, and the thought is slowly driving him mad but he keeps himself away from it.

God, he thinks to himself. John is fucking _deadly._

“What’s wrong?” John asks, his voice small and coy as he looks up through the hypnotising curtains of his lashes, and Roger feels so, so terrible because he actually finds that damn arousing, the heat pooling in his stomach growing thicker like honey at how John is acting. Roger knows, he knows that John is just teasing, but god is it working well on him. “Tell me, Rog.”

“You’re a little minx, you know that?” Roger tells him, a small chuckle just slipping past his lips. “ _God,_ you’re such a prick, John.”

He hears John letting out a huff of laughter. “Okay,” he says with a casual shrugs as he casts his gaze down, trying to hide beneath the thick locks of his brown hair as he bites down a smile that’s so painfully evident on his lips. “Alright, yeah. I’ll, um, I’ll take that.”

That again. The sudden change of behaviour. It just sends his mind reeling, confused by the abruptness of it all, even though he can’t help himself but to like it.

Roger feels his hand moving up, just to tuck some of John’s hair behind his ear. The bassist slowly raises his head, looking right at him with eyes that are slightly widened.

“Sorry,” Roger says. He didn’t break the rule, did he?

“No, you didn’t,” John replies with a sweet grin that exposes the little gap between his front teeth that Roger has always found to be quite endearing. “You didn’t touch me in, uh, a _sexual_ way, I suppose.”

That’s when Roger realises that he has said what he thought out loud.

“We haven’t got anything here, haven’t we?” Roger asks instead, eyes already wandering over the little studio that they’ve so masterfully tainted now. Freddie is _surely_ going to murder him now, he’s certain of it. “Lube, condoms?”

John looks around for a while, before he turns to shake his head and lifts his hips up as he hooks his fingers on the waistband on his knickers, pulling them off of him in one swift move. Roger widens his eyes at this, feeling his blood rush down south at the sight of John’s naked lower half, his own hands already scrambling to get himself out of his own pair, grunting with frustration as he frowns, seeing how they won’t get themselves off as easily with John on his lap. He manages to, though, even though when he’s done with it, he’s a panting mess from exertion.

God, he _really_ needs to work out.

All of the sudden, John lowers his haze as he sends him a wicked look before he lowers his hips down, slowly grinding against his hardening cock. Roger feels his own mouth falling open in a silent gasp, eyes widening at the sheer surprise of it.

Roger bites down a whine, the feeling of John’s rings cold against his overheated skin as the younger man lets his own hips roll ever so slightly over his groin, making Roger throw his head back, setting his eyes upon the ceiling of their studio before John grips onto his chin and forces his head back down again, a dark look plastered upon his stormy, ivy-like eyes. Roger stills, not sure if the rule still applies by now, but his hands _ache,_ they tremble with the need to _touch_ John. Anywhere.

He wants to see John come apart beneath his fingers again.

Roger places his palms right on John’s arse and squeezes there, biting down on his grin when he sees John’s back arching right against his hands, hearing the way John whines as his hand grips harder onto his shoulders, blunt nails once again digging right into his skin in a way that makes him dizzy and hazy around the edges.  He doesn’t give a shit anymore about John’s stupid rule, it’s as if he has lost himself completely to it. He can feel his own toes curling at the sound of John’s high whine, as he leans closer to him.

John feels warm, all over.

 “Please, please, please, _ah, fuck_ , Rog,” Roger all but hears John moan right next to his ear, and he almost rolls his eyes to the back of his head at how _wrecked_ he sounds, voice scratchy and running out of breath. The sound of his voice is only amplified by the emptiness of the room, spare the turntable and their heavy breathing, and somehow Roger feels like this is far too intimate. As if he doesn’t even think he deserves to see the way John’s eyelids flutter close, with his cheeks coloured deep scarlet as he grinds down on Roger, his bruised lip bit down to hold back a moan that spills out anyways.

The way the beat of his drumming vibrate through the floors and right into his bones just makes him burn even hotter, and it’s making him dizzy, with the liquid rushes of pleasure and arousal consuming his mind like a drug that he never wants to get himself away from. 

It was a fast-paced beat that he has set onto the song’s lowerground, so he tries his best to make up his own now, setting a pace just a tad slower, even though he can’t help himself but to match it all together into one symphony that’s enough for them, simple yet mind-blurring so unlike any other. 

Roger lets his lips latch themselves onto John’s own, feeling his toes curling when John shudders against his body, as if he’s slowly falling apart, whiny and desperate. Roger would know, because he’s the exact same thing.

The feeling of John’s hard cock against his own is absolutely dizzying, and he can’t get enough of the way John lets his fingers bury themselves in Roger’s hair, tugging on it harshly. The sting shoots up his spine like a drug, and god, does it only make everything feel even better.

They’re both so awfully wet already, that they slide against each other easily from their precome alone.

”John, we—we could get caught, I haven’t locked the door yet...” Roger feels his own eyes widening at the realisation, but instead of utter panic, he sees John letting out a purr at that, rolling his head back as he lets his eyelids flutter close. 

Bastard, Roger thinks to himself. 

“Fuck, you’re getting off to this, aren’t you, Deaky?” he asks, breath ragged. John’s little nod is enough of an answer as it is, and that makes his knees buckle.

John bites down onto his lip. “You... you know I’ve thought about this,” he says. “I’ve – fuck – made it loud and clear before, didn’t I?”

He can’t _believe_  that John is getting off to how the door across the room could get pushed open by some poor intruder, seeing how the situation inside unfolds. It’s filthy, god, it is.

Roger shakes his head to clear the haziness away, but driven by the way his blood is _burning_ beneath his skin, he hooks one of his hands onto the back of John’s knee, the other placing itself on John’s waist as Roger throws him to the side, switching their positions as he watches John’s body fall onto the sofa with a thud, a little whimper escaping from his parted lips. He feels John’s nails digging deeper onto his clothed skin, one of John’s hand now raking his back.

(Seeing how John seems to lose his mind over it, a corner of Roger’s mind tells him that maybe John liked that.)

He leans down again, taking John’s red lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing up every groan John lets out, and the way their voices seem to mingle together into one. Roger takes both of John’s knees and parts his legs, almost gasping when he feels one of John’s leg pushing him closer by the back of his waist, until he falls over and props himself up with his elbow against the armrest of the sofa just next to the brunet’s shoulder, just to keep himself from putting his entire weight onto John.

“Keep going, Rog, come on,” John babbles next to his ear, and Roger’s hand scramble to grab onto the back of one of John’s knees, hiking his thigh higher as his other leg fall down to the edge of the sofa, parting them even wider for him.

Roger swears he has never seen anything so damn _filthy_ in this life.

And the fact that their music is still playing in the background is just driving him wilder, more than ever.

He grinds down, harder, picking up his pace as he tightens his grip on John’s skin, trying to hold him just so until he can feel the rushes of pleasure rushing in his veins, consuming his brain like it’s all that matters. He tries to roll his hips, halting it just to piss John off, and the brunet just lifts his hips up to meet him, one of his legs pushing him closer once again so he can get himself away.

“Fucking hell,” Roger swears, hearing how spent his voice sounds, low and thick to his own ears. “Is it, is—is it, oh, _god_ ,” he tries to let out, voice broken as he leans down until his lips are right next to John’s ear, toes curling at the liquid heat in his body and the sight of John throwing his head back as he bites back a broken moan that manages to spill out anyway, loud as it bounces off the walls of the  studio. “Is it, fuck, is it good?”

John keens as he nods, and when Roger looks up, he can only see the whites of John’s eyes, lashes fluttering as he feels himself shudder when John grips onto his hair, grabbing a handful before tugging at the base.

“Ah, _ah,_ shit,” John croaks out as his head lolls from side to side like he doesn’t even have the ability to move anymore. “It’s fucking – _god_!” John digs his nails onto his scalp, and Roger hears himself wincing from the pain. “No, no, just—shut… shut up and keep going, Rog.”

The sparks of pleasure fills him completely, punching out wanton moans out of his mouth, making his breath stutter as he pushes his focus upon John’s pleasure as well as his own, letting himself go to the heat as he feels John rocking back against him – almost _rutting,_ fucking Christ – and he senses from his touches, how desperate John is, how much he wants to chase that release, just like he is.

Roger leans himself down, propping his elbow to keep him steady as keeps his lips near the skin of John’s jaw, and by now he’s sure that he must be leaving bruises on John’s thigh, but he couldn’t care less when John whimpers, mouth red and parted, debauched as all hell combines. Roger is sure that he must’ve not looked any better, he’s sure that he must look just as ruined, perhaps even worse.

“Beautiful,” Roger presses against his neck, feeling how John’s grip on his hair tightens, and _fuck,_ it’s so damn painful but he can’t help but to feel the way the pain sends little shivers down his spine. “Fucking _gorgeous_ , god.”

John purrs at that, legs trembling beneath his palms, and Roger swallows it right up, feeling like he’s on cloud nine.

“Shit, _yes,_ Rog,” John moans out, right against him.

“Yeah?” he asks, and when he looks up, he sees John biting down on his bottom lip. His fingers go up to tug his lip down from the grasp of his teeth, and John’s skin grow warmer against his own. “Fuck, John. Deak _—ah_ , you’re so…”

The feeling of John against him makes his blood boil, and they lose themselves in it, hearing the way their moans echo and amplified, overpowering the sound of “Flick of the Wrist” and combining everything like it’s a little song that they’ve both created by themselves. Even though they sound a bit distorted, voice a scratchy mess, Roger takes everything John breathes out, every moan he lets out, every shudder of his body.

The harder he moves the more he feels the heat reaching its highest, making his legs feel weaker by the second, but he’s sure of it. He’s sure that he’s reaching the end, and he can see how John is too, so lost in the pleasure that he doesn’t even care about how loud he’s being – how loud _they’re_ being – his hands scrabbling wild over Roger’s skin, blunt nails scratching the surface until he can feel them leaving scorching trails that he’s sure will last.

“You gonna come for me, Deaky?” Roger asks against the little spot beneath John’s ear, grinning when he hears him let out a high-pitched sound that doesn’t sound like John at all. “Gonna let yourself go for me, baby?”

He can’t help it when he hears himself calling John by a petname again, and John gives him the same reaction as he did back then in his car—his cheeks redden like blossoming roses—but this time, he lets out a strangled noise, before it morphes into a lewd moan that makes Roger’s body tremble.

“F—fuck, Rog, I’m…” John breathes out, going languid as he lets his leg get parted just a little further. Roger grinds down faster, and faster, resting his head just near John’s shoulder so he can press his lips against the exposed skin there. “I’m gonna…”

“I know, John, I know,” Roger babbles, hearing himself letting out a whine when he feels John’s grip getting even tighter. He’s surprised that John hadn’t ripped his hair out at this point. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

He feels the beam of heat in him raise in intensity, _burning_ his entire body as he picks up his pace over and over again, keeping John in his arms, and it slowly goes up, flaring bright red – hot and blinding, reaching its peak like a beaming light.

When John comes, he throws his head back and parts his lips in a silent gasp, eyes closed shut as his thighs tighten themselves around Roger’s own. Roger holds his body close against him, feeling how John just crumbles right into him, his breath heavy and ragged as Roger tries to brush his wild hair back away from his face.

His own release hits him like a punch to the gut, making his legs tense up as he grips onto John’s skin like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him together. John’s hands are on his cheeks, and he’s whispering something, sweet-nothings that sound near-indecipherable to his own ears, but John’s voice is warm to his ears and that’s all it takes to make him shudder as he lets out a whimper.

_Baby, you’ve been had…_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Roger buckles his belt back tight, feeling like his legs are jelly, and he doesn’t trust himself to walk even though his pants are damp and it’s disgusting, but he just can’t be arsed. The afterglow of bliss is there, right behind the lids of his eyes and it’s like a haze in his mind, where the very picture of the bassist pinned up on it, refusing to let go.

He doesn’t know if he wants to let it go just yet, and as much as he wants to admit it, it _scares_ him – it terrifies the shit out of him – and he’s so confused and he has never felt this out of mind in his life. It’s as if he doesn’t know a thing, right when he’s supposed to be.

He reaches over the sofa to grab onto a box of Marlboro and takes out one, perching it between his parted lips as he flicks open the lighter, seeing the way the amber fire turn blue just for a brief second. He inhales like it’s second nature, and he sees the tip of it glowing bright red just for a short while, before he lets his fingers grab the thin body of the cigarette, pulling it away as he releases the blue-grey smoke out of his lips, seeing it flutter away like lace.

As he releases his breath, he feels John resting his head on his shoulder, his brown hair wild and slightly damp from sweat. Roger doesn’t have time to comprehend anything when he realises that he has leant his face closer against the mop of John’s hair, feeling how the wood-like scent of John’s hair slowly fill his lungs, a hint of rose beneath them all.

It makes his mind hazy, and he doesn’t know why it did. It makes him feel like he doesn’t want to go anywhere else; he just wants to stay here forever, with John next to him as the night goes by beneath the clouds and the random array of stars that Brian probably understands.

He suddenly feels John’s hand grabbing his own, tangling their calloused fingers in a shape that’s near indescribable – it’s a mess – but Roger finds himself liking the feeling. John’s hand is warm against his, and he can’t help but to look down at their hands.

John has already switched the turntable off, so now they’re here, consumed by a kind of silence that makes Roger’s pulse calm down.

“You want a smoke, Deaks?” Roger asks, voice just above a whisper.

John turns his head to look up at him, and in this moment, Roger feels his heartbeat stop for a short while – and he doesn’t know how that could happen, and he is _sure_ that he has studied Biology well enough that your heart can’t do that, he might as well just die – but the sight of John’s eyes so close to his just petrifies him. Roger can see every strand of his lashes, John is so close to him that his poor eyesight doesn’t even succeed in making everything a blur anymore.

He can see the colour of John’s cheeks, still riding high and scarlet from his beautiful bliss, freckles adorning his skin like his very own constellation. He can see the clarity of John’s _impossible_ green-grey eyes that just makes his tongue halt and his throat catch. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling all of these things, but he can’t deny them.

He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t want to.

John parts his lips, and somehow Roger takes the cue.

With trembling fingers, Roger feels his body move in its own accord as he sticks the cigarette between John’s red lips, watching intently in how they close around the cigarette like they were always meant to be that way.

Roger can’t look away.

John keeps his eyes on him as he takes one drag, another right after the other, releasing the smoke right near his lips until Roger can’t help but to let some of it get into the space between his parted lips, and into his lungs. It consumes him like the air around him, drowning it in whatever that’s left of him. Roger feels dizzy, like the entire world is shifting, and he’s tumbling. The barest fuzz of beer is there, running in his veins, but still the feeling of John against him is bolder than anything.

The sight of John smoking is one to behold. John is hypnotising, parting his lips just so to let the smoke escape his lips, watching how it swirls away like the remnants of a spell. It’s a fucking gorgeous, gorgeous sight.

Succumbing to himself, Roger takes the cigarette out of John’s lips and caresses his cheeks, before he leans into to kiss him, just so he can see for himself one more time how John tastes on his lips, beneath his tongue, warm and velvet-like. John crumbles against him, and he feels his own hands trembling when he touches the skin of John’s neck, slowly feeling like he’s going just a little mad.

John breathes against him, and Roger can’t help but to swallow it, take in everything John has got to give like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. John is somehow softer than anything he has ever touched, and he suppresses a groan when he realises how his pulse quickens, just as one of John’s hands snake behind his neck to bury itself on his wild hair, tugging on the base ever so slightly. There’s nothing sexual about it, Roger feels like, and can’t help but to think that he doesn’t know if he can ever let himself go.

He slowly parts from the irresistible grasp of John’s lips, and he’s vividly aware of _everything._

The bright scarlet flush of John’s cheeks. The warmth of his skin  that’s slowly blooming beneath the palm of his hand. The way John’s eyelashes sweep over as they flutter, casting faint shadows upon his cheekbones. The way John’s all tangled up against him in a way so dizzying that Roger can’t figure out how to get himself out. The rapid-fire beating of his heart, setting the tone of a fast-paced track that sends his mind reeling.

It’s the rush of an abundance of feelings all at once, and Roger is stuck in between all of it.

When John looks up at him, his eyebrows are raised slightly and his eyes are warmer than ever.

Roger kisses him again.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> yee yee my twt is @deaconism


End file.
